Statement Dress Quotes

[Piper] rushed to get dressed. By the time she got up on deck, the others had already gathered—all hastily dressed except for Coach Hedge, who had pulled the night watch. Frank’s Vancouver Winter Olympics shirt was inside out. Percy wore pajama pants and a bronze breastplate, which was an interesting fashion statement. Hazel’s hair was all blown to one side as though she’d walked through a cyclone; and Leo had accidentally set himself on fire. His T-shirt was in charred tatters. His arms were smoking.

What?" he demanded. "Did you just...clean a dish?" Dee backed away slowly, blinking. She glanced at Daemon. "The world is going to end. And I’m still a vir—" "No!" both the brothers yelled in unison. Daemon looked like he was actually going to vomit. "Jesus, don’t ever finish that statement. Actually, don’t ever change that. Thank you." Her mouth dropped open."You expect me to never have—" "This isn’t a conversation I want to start my morning with." Dawson grabbed his book bag off the kitchen table. "I’m so leaving for school before this gets more detailed." "And why aren’t you dressed yet?" Dee demanded, her full attention concentrated on Daemon. "You’re going to be late." "I’m always late." "Punctuality makes perfect.

You make all the fashion statements just by dressing up your mind.

Take care of your costume and your confidence will take care of itself.

Believe it or not, some of us have piercings and tattoos and dye our hair because we think it looks pretty, not for any deep sociological reason. This isn't an act of protest against cultural or social repression. It's not a grand, deliberately defiant gesture against capitalists or feminists or any other social group. It's not even the fashion equivalent to sticking two fingers up at the world. The boring truth of it, Gabriel, is that I don't dress like this to hurt my parents or draw attention to myself or make a statement. I just do it because I think it looks nice. Disappointed?

With right fashion, every female would be a flame.

Well you are fresh Your face is fabulous Don’t forget you’re one of a kind When nobody’s checking the deeds you’ve done And nobody’s hearing your cries You make all the fashion statements Just by dressing up your mind ((Beauty in Ugly))

It's time to shop high heels if your fiance kisses you on the forehead.

Fashion doesn't make you perfect, but it makes you pretty.

Kincaid rounded the far corner. He was dressed in his customary black clothing again, fatigue pants, and a hunting jacket over body armor, and he had enough guns strapped to his body to outfit a terrorist cell, or a Texan nuclear family.

Any girl with a grin never looks grim.

Live or die, but don't poison everything... Well, death's been here for a long time -- it has a hell of a lot to do with hell and suspicion of the eye and the religious objects and how I mourned them when they were made obscene by my dwarf-heart's doodle. The chief ingredient is mutilation. And mud, day after day, mud like a ritual, and the baby on the platter, cooked but still human, cooked also with little maggots, sewn onto it maybe by somebody's mother, the damn bitch! Even so, I kept right on going on, a sort of human statement, lugging myself as if I were a sawed-off body in the trunk, the steamer trunk. This became perjury of the soul. It became an outright lie and even though I dressed the body it was still naked, still killed. It was caught in the first place at birth, like a fish. But I play it, dressed it up, dressed it up like somebody's doll. Is life something you play? And all the time wanting to get rid of it? And further, everyone yelling at you to shut up. And no wonder! People don't like to be told that you're sick and then be forced to watch you come down with the hammer. Today life opened inside me like an egg and there inside after considerable digging I found the answer. What a bargain! There was the sun, her yolk moving feverishly, tumbling her prize -- and you realize she does this daily! I'd known she was a purifier but I hadn't thought she was solid, hadn't known she was an answer. God! It's a dream, lovers sprouting in the yard like celery stalks and better, a husband straight as a redwood, two daughters, two sea urchings, picking roses off my hackles. If I'm on fire they dance around it and cook marshmallows. And if I'm ice they simply skate on me in little ballet costumes. Here, all along, thinking I was a killer, anointing myself daily with my little poisons. But no. I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar. Even with the witches' gymnastics they trust my incalculable city, my corruptible bed. O dearest three, I make a soft reply. The witch comes on and you paint her pink. I come with kisses in my hood and the sun, the smart one, rolling in my arms. So I say Live and turn my shadow three times round to feed our puppies as they come, the eight Dalmatians we didn't drown, despite the warnings: The abort! The destroy! Despite the pails of water that waited, to drown them, to pull them down like stones, they came, each one headfirst, blowing bubbles the color of cataract-blue and fumbling for the tiny tits. Just last week, eight Dalmatians, 3/4 of a lb., lined up like cord wood each like a birch tree. I promise to love more if they come, because in spite of cruelty and the stuffed railroad cars for the ovens, I am not what I expected. Not an Eichmann. The poison just didn't take. So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.

Attending a snooty party meant wearing shoes designed by sadistic trolls and dressing to compete with women born to make fashion statements.’ (Abbie)

You cannot choose your face but you can choose your dress.

Dresses won't worn out in the wardrobe, but that is not what dresses are designed for.

Dresses don't look beautiful on hangers.

Show me your memories of the kiss.” I close my eyes. The heat creeps up my cheeks, which is silly because the sword was there when the kiss happened and saw the whole thing. So what if I’m curious about what he felt? “Oh, come on. Do we have to do this again?” Nothing. “That last one was totally awful. I need a little comfort. It’s just a small favor. Please?” Nothing. “Extra ribbons and bows for you,” I try to sound like I mean it. “Maybe even sparkly makeup on the teddy bear.” Still nothing. “Traitor.” I know that’s a funny statement since the sword is actually being loyal to Raffe but I don’t care.

Over a quarter of a century ago she and Vernon had made a household for almost a year, in a tiny rooftop flat on the rue de Seine. There were always damp towels on the floor then, and cataracts of her underwear tumbling from drawers she never closed, a big ironing board that was never folded away, and in the one overfilled wardrobe dresses , crushed and shouldering sideways like commuters on the metro. Magazines, makeup, bank statements, bead necklaces, flowers, knickers, ashtrays, invitations, tampons, LPs, airplane tickets, high heeled shoes- not a single surface was left uncovered by something of Molly's, so that when Vernon was meant to be working at home, he took to writing in a cafe along the street. And yet each morning she arose fresh from the shell of this girly squalor, like a Botticelli Venus, to present herself, not naked, of course, but sleekly groomed, at the offices of Paris Vogue.

So, you’re dead asleep, and you get a call. Something terrible’s happened, and I’m dead. What do you do?” It took him a moment to quell the terror, to ignore the small, dark place inside him that feared getting that call every day. “Before or after I fall prostrate with grief?” “Before, during, and after. Do you peruse your wardrobe and select a coordinating outfit—down to the footwear? Do you deal with your hair so it’s perfectly groomed?” “With my considerable skills and innate instincts that would take no time at all.” “Keep it up and I’ll dump red sauce all over your fashionable smarty-pants.” “That statement is one of the countless reasons why, under the circumstances you described, I’d be lucky to remember to dress at all.

Karpo, as always, was dressed in black. His leather coat was black. Even his scarf and fur hat were black. Rostnikov thought that clothes reflected the people who wore them. Rostnikov himself dressed neatly, conservatively, in old comfortable suits and ties Sarah had bought for him at market stalls. As for Karpo's choice of black, Rostnikov was not given to simple judgment. He himself was rather fond of black, which was either the absence of color or the totality of color. There was a statement in black, he thought. Black said, You cannot penetrate my being by looking at my exterior. I am a dark cipher.

People invariably ask Carefree Scamps, “Where did you get that jumper?” or, “Where did you get that dress?” The answer is quite possibly Camden Market, but they won’t be able to remember. They’ll simply answer something like, “I dunno, I’ve had it for ages.

The lady sitting next to me makes eye contact and smiles. She’s grandma age and wearing a statement glam necklace. “How long have you been together?” I choke on water. Full-on spit up all over my dress. “We’re not,” I cough. “Sure, sweets. Sure.” I blame the matching outfits.

The Spirit at work in us is replacing our desire to dress in a way that impresses or seduces with a desire to dress as Paul instructed women in his letter to Timothy, “in respectable apparel, with modesty and self-control” (1 Tim. 2:9). Rather than making a fashion statement with our clothes that will cause heads to turn in our direction, we want to make a fashion statement with our character that will cause heads to turn in Christ’s direction.

Madame Dufour stood at the head of the table, dressed in a severe black dress that revealed the soup spoon–sized hollow at the base of her long neck. A single diamond brooch was her only adornment (one good piece, ladies, and choose it well; everything makes a statement, nothing speaks quite so loudly as cheapness).

Why haven't you told me the truth about you and Archer?" "We were just friends," I said. "How many times do I have to say it?" When he didn't say anything, I rolled my eyes. "Okay,so I liked him. I had a crush on him,and-" I wasn't sure if the heat in my face was from embarrassment or anger. "And yes, one time we kissed. But it was just the once,and about ten seconds afterward,I found out he was an Eye." Dad nodded. "And that's it.That's the whole story." Why oh why wasn't there a giant hole in the floor that I could plummet through, perferably to my death? "That,that's it." "Well,that's something," Dad said, running a hand through his hair. "At some point, I want you to add that to your original statement." We were quiet for a long time before I wiped my sweaty palms on my dress and said, "Is there anything else horrible happening that I need to know about?" Dad gave a humorless laugh as he ushered me toward the door. "I believe that covers all the current horror.

An old fashioned outfit is not a costume, it's a comedy.

Perhaps it is a shame that I have vowed to keep my past locked up within me. At Hvammur, during the trial, they plucked at my words like birds. Dreadful birds, dressed in red with breasts of silver buttons, and cocked heads and sharp mouths, looking for guilt like berries on a bush. They did not let me say what happened in my own way, but took my memories of Illugastadir, of Natan, and wrought them into something sinister; they wrested my statement of that night and made me seem malevolent. Everything I said was taken from me and altered until the story wasn’t my own

Wrong Planet people tend to dress slightly differently from Rag, Tag & Bobtail. My son, Kai, always used to say that I have my own swag, meaning that my style of clothing is different from a lot of people. Not radically so, I’m not completely outrageous – although I’ve probably had my moments – but my clothes are often quite different from everybody else’s, who for the most part socialise in the same kind of shirts they wear to work. I was wearing shirts or jackets 20 years ago that are only just starting to come into fashion nowadays. I can’t explain this, I’m hardly a trend-setter, just that I’ve always liked that style.

You’re not going to break your ankle,” Mom says, her voice somewhere between comforting and condescending. “You fall, you get back up. Or you let Kieran help you get back up. Trust me, once he sees you in this dress, that boy’s going to do whatever you want.” I cock an eyebrow after her last statement, and she quickly adds, “Whatever you want, of course, that doesn’t involve drugs, booze, or any kind of behavior that might make me grandmother at forty.

The Loneliness of the Military Historian Confess: it's my profession that alarms you. This is why few people ask me to dinner, though Lord knows I don't go out of my way to be scary. I wear dresses of sensible cut and unalarming shades of beige, I smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser's: no prophetess mane of mine, complete with snakes, will frighten the youngsters. If I roll my eyes and mutter, if I clutch at my heart and scream in horror like a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene, I do it in private and nobody sees but the bathroom mirror. In general I might agree with you: women should not contemplate war, should not weigh tactics impartially, or evade the word enemy, or view both sides and denounce nothing. Women should march for peace, or hand out white feathers to arouse bravery, spit themselves on bayonets to protect their babies, whose skulls will be split anyway, or,having been raped repeatedly, hang themselves with their own hair. There are the functions that inspire general comfort. That, and the knitting of socks for the troops and a sort of moral cheerleading. Also: mourning the dead. Sons,lovers and so forth. All the killed children. Instead of this, I tell what I hope will pass as truth. A blunt thing, not lovely. The truth is seldom welcome, especially at dinner, though I am good at what I do. My trade is courage and atrocities. I look at them and do not condemn. I write things down the way they happened, as near as can be remembered. I don't ask why, because it is mostly the same. Wars happen because the ones who start them think they can win. In my dreams there is glamour. The Vikings leave their fields each year for a few months of killing and plunder, much as the boys go hunting. In real life they were farmers. The come back loaded with splendour. The Arabs ride against Crusaders with scimitars that could sever silk in the air. A swift cut to the horse's neck and a hunk of armour crashes down like a tower. Fire against metal. A poet might say: romance against banality. When awake, I know better. Despite the propaganda, there are no monsters, or none that could be finally buried. Finish one off, and circumstances and the radio create another. Believe me: whole armies have prayed fervently to God all night and meant it, and been slaughtered anyway. Brutality wins frequently, and large outcomes have turned on the invention of a mechanical device, viz. radar. True, valour sometimes counts for something, as at Thermopylae. Sometimes being right - though ultimate virtue, by agreed tradition, is decided by the winner. Sometimes men throw themselves on grenades and burst like paper bags of guts to save their comrades. I can admire that. But rats and cholera have won many wars. Those, and potatoes, or the absence of them. It's no use pinning all those medals across the chests of the dead. Impressive, but I know too much. Grand exploits merely depress me. In the interests of research I have walked on many battlefields that once were liquid with pulped men's bodies and spangled with exploded shells and splayed bone. All of them have been green again by the time I got there. Each has inspired a few good quotes in its day. Sad marble angels brood like hens over the grassy nests where nothing hatches. (The angels could just as well be described as vulgar or pitiless, depending on camera angle.) The word glory figures a lot on gateways. Of course I pick a flower or two from each, and press it in the hotel Bible for a souvenir. I'm just as human as you. But it's no use asking me for a final statement. As I say, I deal in tactics. Also statistics: for every year of peace there have been four hundred years of war.

I am a palette of emotions; I remember how I have cov-eted to be free from the school rules. I look around to see people casually dressed up and walking with an aim maybe to make a better career or just add fame of DU degree like me. The campus is buzzing with freshman and activity. I just hope, these corridors, hallways, and passages don’t see me trip-ping and falling any day. I feel more comfortable standing in between the crowd of people moving. Like nobody is paying any heed. You can be yourself without feeling awkward about anything.

Of the three of us, I alone was allowed to enter Amma’s bedroom and watch her get dressed for special occasions. It was an experience I considered almost religious, for, even though I adored the goddesses of the local cinema, Amma was the final statement in female beauty for me.

Before she could say anything more, Sabella swung around at the sound of Noah’s Harley purring to life behind the garage. God. He was dressed in snug jeans and riding chaps. A snug dark T-shirt covered his upper body, conformed to it. And he was riding her way. “Is there anything sexier than a man in riding chaps riding a Harley?” Kira asked behind her. “It makes a woman simply want to melt.” And Sabella was melting. She watched as he pulled around the side of the garage then took the gravel road that led to the back of the house. The sound of the Harley purred closer, throbbing, building the excitement inside her. “I think it’s time for me to leave,” Kira said with a light laugh. “Don’t bother to see me out.” Sabella didn’t. She listened as the Harley drew into the graveled lot behind the house and moved to the back door. She opened it, stepping out on the back deck as he swung his legs over the cycle and strode toward her. That long-legged lean walk. It made her mouth water. Made her heart throb in her throat as hunger began to race through her. “The spa treated you well,” he announced as he paused at the bottom of the steps and stared back at her. “Feel like messing your hair up and going out this evening? We could have dinner in town. Ride around a little bit.” She hadn’t ridden on a motorcycle since she was a teenager. She glanced at the cycle, then back to Noah. “I’d need to change clothes.” His gaze flickered over her short jeans skirt, her T-shirt. “That would be a damned shame too,” he stated. “I have to say, Ms. Malone, you have some beautiful legs there.” No one had ever been as charming as Nathan. She remembered when they were dating, how he would just show up, out of the blue, driving that monster pickup of his and grinning like a rogue when he picked her up. He’d been the epitome of a bad boy, and he had been all hers. He was still all hers. “Bare legs and motorcycles don’t exactly go together,” she pointed out. He nodded soberly, though his eyes had a wicked glint to them. “This is a fact, beautiful. And pretty legs like that, we wouldn’t want to risk.” She leaned against the porch post and stared back at him. “I have a pickup, you know.” She propped one hand on her hip and stared back at him. “Really?” Was that avarice she saw glinting in his eyes, or for just the slightest second, pure, unadulterated joy at the mention of that damned pickup? He looked around. “I haven’t seen a pickup.” “It’s in the garage,” she told him carelessly. “A big black monster with bench seats. Four-by-four gas-guzzling alpha-male steel and chrome.” He grinned. He was so proud of that damned pickup. “Where did something so little come up with a truck that big?” he teased her then. She shrugged. “It belonged to my husband. Now, it belongs to me.” That last statement had his gaze sharpening. “You drive it?” “All the time,” she lied, tormenting him. “I don’t have to worry about pinging it now that my husband is gone. He didn’t like pings.” Did he swallow tighter? “It’s pinged then?” She snorted. “Not hardly. Do you want to drive the monster or question me about it? Or I could change into jeans and we could ride your cycle. Which is it?” Which was it? Noah stared back at her, barely able to contain his shock that she had kept the pickup. He knew for a fact there were times the payments on the house and garage had gone unpaid—his “death” benefits hadn’t been nearly enough—almost risking her loss of both during those first months of his “death.” Knowing she had held on to that damned truck filled him with more pleasure than he could express. Knowing she was going to let someone who wasn’t her husband drive it filled him with horror. The contradictor feelings clashed inside him, and he promised himself he was going to spank her for this.

Feeling the slight tremor of his fingers against her skin, Daisy was emboldened to remark, “I’ve never been attracted to tall men before. But you make me feel—” “If you don’t keep quiet,” he interrupted curtly, “I’m going to strangle you.” Daisy felt silent, listening to the rhythm of his breath as it turned deeper, less controlled. By contrast his fingers became more certain in their task, working along the row of pearls until her dress gaped open and the sleeves slipped from her shoulders. “Where is it?” he asked. “The key?” His tone was deadly. “Yes, Daisy. The key.” “It fell inside my corset. Which means… I’ll have to take that off too.” There was no reaction to the statement, no sound or movement. Daisy twisted to glance at Matthew. He seemed dazed. His eyes looked unnaturally blue against the flush on his face. She realized he was occupied with a savage inner battle to keep from touching her. Feeling hot and prickly with embarrassment, Daisy pulled her arms completely out of her sleeves. She worked the dress over her hips, wriggling out of the filmy white layers, letting them slide to the floor in a heap. Matthew stared at the discarded dress as if it were some kind of exotic fauna he had never seen before. Slowly his eyes returned to Daisy, and an incoherent protest came from his throat as she began to unhook her corset. She felt shy and wicked, undressing in front of him. But she was encouraged by the way he seemed unable to tear his gaze from each newly revealed inch of pale skin. When the last metal hook came apart, she tossed the web of lace and stays to the floor. All that remained over her breasts was a crumpled chemise. The key had dropped into her lap. Closing her fingers around the metal object, she risked a cautious glance at Matthew. His eyes were closed, his forehead scored with furrows of pained concentration. “This isn’t going to happen,” he said, more to himself than to her. Daisy leaned forward to tuck the key into his coat pocket. Gripping the hem of her chemise, she stripped it over her head. A tingling shock chased over her naked upper body. She was so nervous that her teeth had begun to chatter. “I just took my chemise off,” she said. “Don’t you want to look?” “No.” But his eyes had opened, and his gaze found her small, pink-tipped breasts, and the breath hissed through his clenched teeth. He sat without moving, staring at her as she untied his cravat and unbuttoned the layers of his waistcoat and shirt. She blushed everywhere but continued doggedly, rising to her knees to tug the coat from his shoulders. He moved like a dreamer, slowly pulling his arms from the coat sleeves and waistcoat. Daisy pushed his shirt open with awkward determination, her gaze drinking in the sight of his chest and torso. His skin gleamed like heavy satin, stretched taut over broad expanses of muscle. She touched the powerful vault of his ribs, trailing her fingertips to the rippled tautness of his midriff. Suddenly Matthew caught her hand, seemingly undecided whether to push it away or press it closer. Her fingers curled over his. She stared into his dilated blue eyes. “Matthew,” she whispered. “I’m here. I’m yours. I want to do everything you’ve ever imagined doing with me.” He stopped breathing. His will foundered and collapsed, and suddenly nothing mattered except the demands of a desire that had been denied too long. With a rough groan of surrender, he lifted her onto his lap.

He peered up at the house. “I know you’re finished in there, Blake. May as well come out.” I breathed a silent sigh. Blake strolled onto the deck wearing low-slung skater shorts and flip-flops. Being shirtless must’ve been mandatory in California. I kind of wished they’d get dressed so I could focus properly when I told them about the prophecy. Blake joined us beside the pool. “So . . . ,” said Blake, rocking back on his heels. “Lover’s quarrel over?” “We’re not lovers,” Kaidan and I said together. “What’s stopping you?” Blake smiled. “What’s stopping you and Ginger?” Kaidan asked. “An ocean, man. Fu—” He glanced at me. “Uh . . . eff you.” “Eff me?” Kaidan asked, grinning. “No, eff you, mate.” Blake put a fist over his mouth when he caught what must have been a seething look on my face, and he laughed, punching Kaidan in the arm. “Told you, man! She’s pissed about the cursing thing! Ginger was right.” I shook my head. I wouldn’t look at them. I was too humiliated to deny it. “Girl, all you have to do is say the word, and Mr. Lusty McLust a Lot here will be happy to whisper some dirty nothings in your ear.” Kaidan half grinned, sexuality rolling off him as wild as the Pacific below us. I took a shaky breath. “I don’t appreciate when people are fake with me.” I pointed this statement at Kaidan. Okay, calling him a fake was overboard, especially if he was just being respectful. But my feelings were bruised and battered. If Kai wasn’t going to forgive me or be willing to talk, I couldn’t hang around and deal with his bad attitude. It hurt too much, and the unfairness frustrated me to no end. “If you guys will sit down and shut up for a minute, I’ll tell you what I came here to say, and then I’m out of here. You two can find someone else to make fun of.” They both wiped the smiles from their faces. I pulled a padded lawn chair over and sat. They moved a couple of chairs closer, giving me their attention. 

Our coerced silence is the weapon that has been sharpened and brought to our throats. This is why Nawaz Sharif’s statement in defence of Ahmadis met with such an angry response. Because the heart of the issue isn’t whether Ahmadis are non-Muslims or not. The heart of the issue is whether Muslims can be silenced by fear. Because if we can be silenced when it comes to Ahmadis, then we can be silenced when it comes to Shias, we can be silenced when it comes to women, we can be silenced when it comes to dress, we can be silenced when it comes to entertainment, and we can even be silenced when it comes to sitting by ourselves, alone in a room, afraid to think what we think. That is the point.

In record time, I’m out of the shower, hair dripping, my T-shirt sticking to my still-damp body, running out the door to the SUV in the driveway. My dress and Logan’s tux are waiting for us at the palace, where the glam squad will make me presentable. Harry, a young, carefree security guard with shoulder-length brown hair, argues with Bartholomew, a bulkier bodyguard, in the driveway. “You don’t have it in you, mate.” “Oh, I have it in me—you can believe that.” I have no idea what their pissing contest is about, but I don’t have time for it. “You’re both gonna have my foot in your asses if somebody doesn’t drive me to the palace right now!” I yell. They both look shocked. And then they move their asses. “She’s kind of a violent little thing, isn’t she?” Harry says to Logan as he climbs in the backseat with me. Logan just laughs. And looks at me. “You’re going to make a good mum one day.” I shake my head at him. “That’s what you got out of my statement? Really?” “Sure—you sound just like Tommy’s mum and she’s the best one I know.” And something occurs to me—something we haven’t talked about yet. “Do you want that one day?” I imitate Logan’s accent. “To be a da?” “I do.” His face softens. “As long as you’re the mum, I’d like very much to be the da.” My stomach gets warm and fluttery. “Me too. Should probably make me a Mrs. first, though.” Logan kisses my palm, smiling. “That’s the plan.” Good to know.

it, Valmont found himself staring at her. At the easy, languid way in which she crossed the floor; of the taut perfection of her figure, which, without being conspicuously on show beneath the soft folds of her white summer dress, was not entirely hidden by it either. It struck him as a calculated statement; both ambiguous and provocative without being obvious. This subtlety pleased him. Although finely boned and petite, she possessed bearing and composure; a certain reckless enjoyment of her own body. And her face was equally striking, with large feline eyes and full lips, poised on the verge of a smile, as if she were recalling a private joke. Her hair was black. It was brushed back from her face and arranged like a soft dusky halo round her head. A little straw handbag dangled from her wrist and she frowned slightly as she made her way up to the front desk.

Good morning.' Cassian's fingers idly smoothed her hair. 'Good morning to you, too.' He glanced toward the mantel- the small wooden clock in its centre, then lurched up. 'Shit.' Nesta frowned. 'You have somewhere to be?' He was already hopping into his pants, scanning the floor for the rest of his clothes. Nesta silently pointed to the other side of the bed, where his shirt lay atop her dress. 'Snowball fight. I'll be late.' Nesta had to unload every word of his statement. But she could only ask. 'What?' 'Annual tradition, with Rhys and Az. We go up tot he mountain cabin- remind me to take you there one day- and... Well, it's a long story, but we've done it pretty much every year for centuries, and I haven't won in years. If I don't win this year, I will never hear the end of it.' All of this was said while shoving himself into his shirt, leather jacket, and boots. Nesta just laughed. 'You three- the most feared warriors in all the land- have an annual snowball fight?' Cassian reached the door, throwing her a wicked grin. 'Did I mention we take a steam in the birchin attached to the cabin afterward?' From that wicked grin, she knew he meant completely naked.

I need a drink. Now.” After tossing—fine, throwing—my purse and keys on the couch, I march straight into the kitchen. No more delays; it's time to forget tonight. It’s been yet another night like all the other first dates that never meet a second one. When you begin to lose count, that's when it's really time for a drink. Adrian stands there, leaning against the counter in an unbuttoned dress shirt and dark wash jeans. He glances at me as I walk in. “How was your date?” he asks, taking a swig of his scotch. I brush past him on my mission, opening the cupboard and moving a couple bottles around. I reiterate, “I need alcohol.” Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him hiding a smile before he says, “That bad?” My face twitches as I ignore his line of questioning. It is more like a statement he wants me to clarify, even though he already knows the answer. Instead, I ask, “I have vodka left, don't I?” I stand on my tiptoes in hopes of spotting something in the very back. Nothing. He waltzes over and looks with me, his chin almost touching my shoulder. “I think you polished that one off after last week's date.” His voice is low right next to my ear, very nearly causing a shiver.

On July 6, 2016, a month after my statement was released, Philando Castile, a young black man, was driving home from the grocery store when a police officer pulled him over pulled him over for a broken taillight and shot him seven times. His fiancee in the passenger seat recorded him slumping over, his white shirt stained red like a Japanese flag, while a four-year old girl sat in the back. I thought, Evidence, this is it, the case that gets the verdict. It's right there, you can't turn away from it, can't reason your way out. But on June 16, 2018, the jury returned a not guilty verdict. In Oakland, people stormed the highways. Some called it chaos, but I saw reason. My testimony was incomplete because I'd blacked out. Philando couldn't testify because he was dead, couldn't even attend his own trial. I wish the prosecutor had called Philando to the stand, forced the jury to stare at the empty witness box, his name echoing into the silence, proceeded with questions. What were your nicknames for the little girl? Did your arms get tired when you carried her? Did you know, while getting dressed that morning, those were the clothes you would die in? What kind of cake did you want at your wedding?

He opened his eyes then, white fire flaring hotly within them. “Send me home, Legna,” he commanded her, his voice hoarse with suppressed emotion. She moved her head in affirmation even as she leaned toward him to catch his mouth once more in a brief, territorial kiss, her teeth scoring his bottom lip as she broke away. It was an incidental wound, one he could heal in the blink of an eye. But he wouldn’t erase her mark on him, and they both knew it. Finally, she stepped back, closed her eyes, and concentrated on picturing his home in her thoughts. She had been in his parlor dozens of times as a guest, always accompanied by Noah. His library, his kitchen, even the grounds of the isolated estate were well known to her. She could have sent him to any of those locations. But as she began to focus, her mind’s eye was filled with the image of a dark, elegant room she had never seen before. Hand-carved ebony-paneled walls soared up into a vast ceiling, enormous windows of intricate stained glass spilled colored light over the entire room as if a multitude of rainbows had taken up residence. It all centered around an enormous bed, the coverlet’s color indistinguishable under the blanket of colorful dawn sunlight that streamed into the room. She could feel the sun’s warmth, ready and waiting to cocoon any weary occupant who thrived on sleeping in the heat of the muted daylight sun. It was a beautiful room, and she knew without a doubt that it was Gideon’s bedroom and that he had shared the image of it with her. If she sent him there, it would be the first time she had ever teleported someone to a place she had not first seen for herself. The ability to take images of places from others’ minds for teleporting purposes was an advanced Elder ability. “You can do it,” he encouraged her softly, all of his thoughts and his will completely full of his belief in that statement. Legna kept his gaze for one last long moment, and with a flick of a wrist sent him from the room with a soft pop of moving air. She exhaled in wonder, everything inside of her knowing without a doubt that he had appeared in his bedroom, safe and sound, that very next second. Legna turned to look at her own bed and wondered how she would ever be able to sleep. Nelissuna . . . go to bed. I will help you sleep. Gideon’s voice washed through her, warming her, comforting her in a way she hadn’t thought possible. This was the connection that Jacob and Isabella shared. For the rest of the time both of them lived, each would be privy to the other’s innermost thoughts. She realized that because he was the more powerful, it was quite possible he would be able to master parts of himself, probably even hide things from her awareness and keep them private—at least, until she learned how to work her new ability with better skill. After all, she was a Demon of the Mind. It was part of her innate state of being to figure the workings of their complex minds. She removed her slippers and pushed the sleeves of her dress from her shoulders so that it sheeted off her in one smooth whisper of fabric. She closed her eyes, avoiding looking in the mirror or at herself, very aware of Gideon’s eyes behind her own. His masculine laughter vibrated through her, setting her skin to tingle. So, you are both shy and bold . . . he said with amusement as she quickly slid beneath her covers. You are a source of contradictions and surprises, Legna. My world has begun anew. As if living for over a millennium is not long enough? she asked him. On the contrary. Without you, it was far, far too long. Go to sleep, Nelissuna. And a moment after she received the thought, her eyes slid closed with a weight she could not have contradicted even if she had wanted to. Her last thought, as she drifted off, was that she had to make a point of telling Isabella that she might have been wrong about what it meant to have another to share one’s mind with.

VIN RESISTED THE URGE TO PICK at her noblewoman’s dress. Even after a half week of being forced to wear one—Sazed’s suggestion—she found the bulky garment uncomfortable. It pulled tightly at her waist and chest, then fell to the floor with several layers of ruffled fabric, making it difficult to walk. She kept feeling as if she were going to trip—and, despite the gown’s bulk, she felt as if she were somehow exposed by how tight it was through the chest, not to mention the neckline’s low curve. Though she had exposed nearly as much skin when wearing normal, buttoning shirts, this seemed different somehow. Still, she had to admit that the gown made quite a difference. The girl who stood in the mirror before her was a strange, foreign creature. The light blue dress, with its white ruffles and lace, matched the sapphire barrettes in her hair. Sazed claimed he wouldn’t be happy until her hair was at least shoulder-length, but he had still suggested that she purchase the broochlike barrettes and put them just above each ear. “Often, aristocrats don’t hide their deficiencies,” he had explained. “Instead, they highlight them. Draw attention to your short hair, and instead of thinking you’re unfashionable, they might be impressed by the statement you are making.” She also wore a sapphire necklace—modest by noble standards, but still worth more than two hundred boxings. It was complemented by a single ruby bracelet for accentuation. Apparently, the current fashion dictated a single splash of a different color to provide contrast. And it was all hers,

When we reach a certain age we have opportunity to decide how we present ourselves to the world, and that age is getting ever younger. Even our young teenage generation is aware of fashion and we grow acutely more and more aware of how obsessed our society is with imagery and appearance. Or rather we become more aware that to get on in life we need to be brash and bright and sparkling all the time. That bright colours and big noises is what gets your through life, that any substance behind that is almost irrelevant to success. We only need look at who we proclaim as celebrities, who society rewards with wealth, that substance is not a prerequisite to success. Be bright, make a statement, choose a bold look, dye your hair, pierce your body, paint it with permanent ink, wear outlandish clothes and don't be afraid to say something crude or mean or controversial because that's the person you are. Or is it? Is it that when you've done with the all the additions to your body, the person you look at in the mirror is no longer the real you. It is a character, the one you think society wants you to be, that society has convinced you that you want to be, substance optional. One of the most beautiful moments of conversation on and offline I've had with some people is when they surprise me, a comment or opinion with substance and thought, something away fro their character, revealing the real individual in-between. So why hide that part of you. When did our society evolve into a place when people have to sell themselves as a larger than life character? When did being a little quiet, thoughtful, more subtly dressed stop being classy and become perceived as dull. When did people, intelligent people, start to realise that world didn't want them to be themselves and it was better to throw in some over the top extravagances, make claim to some extreme habits and tastes. These same people permanently seeking definition of the character they've become rather than friendship from real people who know it is purely superficial but go along with it anyway. You're not your unnaturally coloured hair or your mark applied to you by a skilled artist. You are not the label of clothes you wear nor the quirky colours you choose to represent yourself. Just be honest with yourself, attention seeking is an illness. Don't follow the trends like everyone else. Make your own. That's my objective, to unashamedly be myself, And that is probably why I always wear a lot of black. No tricks, no fancy colours, no parlour tricks to detract from who I am. I want people to see my subtance, not be clouded with smoke and mirrors and see a character that doesn't really exist.

When we reach a certain age we have opportunity to decide how we present ourselves to the world, and that age is getting ever younger. Even our young teenage generation is aware of fashion and we grow acutely more and more aware of how obsessed our society is with imagery and appearance. Or rather we become more aware that to get on in life we need to be brash and bright and sparkling all the time. That bright colours and big noises is what gets your through life, that any substance behind that is almost irrelevant to success. We only need look at who we proclaim as celebrities, who society rewards with wealth, that substance is not a prerequisite to success. Be bright, make a statement, choose a bold look, dye your hair, pierce your body, paint it with permanent ink, wear outlandish clothes and don't be afraid to say something crude or mean or controversial because that's the person you are. Or is it? Is it that when you've done with the all the additions to your body, the person you look at in the mirror is no longer the real you. It is a character, the one you think society wants you to be, that society has convinced you that you want to be, substance optional. One of the most beautiful moments of conversation on and offline I've had with some people is when they surprise me, a comment or opinion with substance and thought, something away fro their character, revealing the real individual in-between. So why hide that part of you. When did our society evolve into a place when people have to sell themselves as a larger than life character? When did being a little quiet, thoughtful, more subtly dressed stop being classy and become perceived as dull. When did people, intelligent people, start to realise that world didn't want them to be themselves and it was better to throw in some over the top extravagances, make claim to some extreme habits and tastes. These same people permanently seeking definition of the character they've become rather than friendship from real people who know it is purely superficial but go along with it anyway. You're not your unnaturally coloured hair or your mark applied to you by a skilled artist. You are not the label of clothes you wear nor the quirky colours you choose to represent yourself. Just be honest with yourself, attention seeking is an illness. Don't follow the trends like everyone else. Make your own. That's my objective, to unashamedly be myself, And that is probably why I always wear a lot of black. No tricks, no fancy colours, no parlour tricks to detract from who I am. I want people to see my subtance, not be clouded with smoke and mirrors and see a character that doesn't really exist.

She found it difficult to discuss physics, much less debate it, with her predominantly male classmates. At first they paid a kind of selective inattention to her remarks. There would be a slight pause, and then they would go on as if she had not spoken. Occasionally they would acknowledge her remark, even praise it, and then again continue undeflected. She was reasonably sure her remarks were not entirely foolish, and did not wish to be ignored, much less ignored and patronized alternately. Part of it—but only a part—she knew was due to the softness of her voice. So she developed a physics voice, a professional voice: clear, competent, and many decibels above conversational. With such a voice it was important to be right. She had to pick her moments. It was hard to continue long in such a voice, because she was sometimes in danger of bursting out laughing. So she found herself leaning toward quick, sometimes cutting, interventions, usually enough to capture their attention; then she could go on for a while in a more usual tone of voice. Every time she found herself in a new group she would have to fight her way through again, just to dip her oar into the discussion. The boys were uniformly unaware even that there was a problem. Sometimes she would be engaged in a laboratory exercise or a seminar when the instructor would say, “Gentlemen, let’s proceed,” and sensing Ellie’s frown would add, “Sorry, Miss Arroway, but I think of you as one of the boys.” The highest compliment they were capable of paying was that in their minds she was not overtly female. She had to fight against developing too combative a personality or becoming altogether a misanthrope. She suddenly caught herself. “Misanthrope” is someone who dislikes everybody, not just men. And they certainly had a word for someone who hates women: “misogynist.” But the male lexicographers had somehow neglected to coin a word for the dislike of men. They were almost entirely men themselves, she thought, and had been unable to imagine a market for such a word. More than many others, she had been encumbered with parental proscriptions. Her newfound freedoms—intellectual, social, sexual—were exhilarating. At a time when many of her contemporaries were moving toward shapeless clothing that minimized the distinctions between the sexes, she aspired to an elegance and simplicity in dress and makeup that strained her limited budget. There were more effective ways to make political statements, she thought. She cultivated a few close friends and made a number of casual enemies, who disliked her for her dress, for her political and religious views, or for the vigor with which she defended her opinions. Her competence and delight in science were taken as rebukes by many otherwise capable young women. But a few looked on her as what mathematicians call an existence theorem—a demonstration that a woman could, sure enough, excel in science—or even as a role model.

His voice was cool and steady. “You’ve proved my point, Lillian. If a man you don’t even like can bring you to this state, then how much easier would it be for St. Vincent?” She started as if he had slapped her, and her eyes widened. The transition from warm desire to a feeling of utter foolishness was not a pleasant one. The devastating intimacy between them had been nothing but a lesson to demonstrate her inexperience. He had used it as an opportunity to put her in her place. Apparently she wasn’t good enough to wed or to bed. Lillian wanted to die. Humiliated, she scrambled upward, clutching at her unfastened garments, and shot him a glare of hatred. “That remains to be seen,” she choked out. “I’ll just have to compare the two of you. And then if you ask nicely, perhaps I’ll tell you if he—” Westcliff pounced on her with startling swiftness, shoving her back to the lawn and bracketing her tossing head between his muscular forearms. “Stay away from him,” he snapped. “He can’t have you.” “Why not?” she demanded, struggling as he settled more heavily between her flailing legs. “Am I not good enough for him either? Inferior breed that I am—” “You’re too good for him. And he would be the first to admit it.” “I like him all the better for not suiting your high standards!” “Lillian— hold still, damn it— Lillian, look at me!” Westcliff waited until she had stilled beneath him. “I don’t want to see you hurt.” “Has it ever occurred to you, you arrogant idiot, that the person most likely to hurt me might be you?” Now it was his turn to recoil as if struck. He stared at her blankly, though she could practically hear the whirring of his agile brain as he sorted through the potential implications of her rash statement. “Get off me,” Lillian said sullenly. He moved upward, straddling her slender hips, his fingers grasping the inner edges of her corset. “Let me fasten you. You can’t run back to the manor half dressed.” “By all means,” she replied with helpless scorn, “let’s observe the proprieties.” Closing her eyes, she felt him tugging her clothes into place, tying her chemise and re-hooking her corset efficiently. When he finally released her, she sprang from the ground like a startled doe and rushed to the entrance of the hidden garden. To her eternal humiliation, she couldn’t find the door, which was concealed by the lavish spills of ivy coming over the wall. Blindly she thrust her hands into the trailing greenery, breaking two nails as she scrabbled for the doorjamb. Coming up behind her, Westcliff settled his hands at her waist, easily dodging her attempts to throw him off. He pulled her hips back firmly against his and spoke against her ear. “Are you angry because I started making love to you, or because I didn’t finish?” Lillian licked her dry lips. “I’m angry, you bloody big hypocrite, because you can’t make up your mind about what to do with me.” She punctuated the comment with the hard jab of one elbow back against his ribs.

By thinking that other people are inferior to oneself. By feeling that one has some innate superiority it may be wealth, or rank, a straight nose, or the portrait of a grandfather by Romney - for there is no end to the pathetic devices of the human imagination over other people. Hence the enormous importance to a patriarch who has to conquer, who has to rule, of feeling that great numbers of people, half the human race indeed, are by nature inferior to himself. It must indeed be one of the chief sources of his power. But let me turn the light of this observation on to real life, I thought. Does it help to explain some of those psychological puzzles that one notes in the margin of daily life? Does it explain my astonishment the other day when Z, most humane, most modest of men, taking up some book by Rebecca West and reading a passage in it, exclaimed, 'The arrant feminist! She says that men are snobs!' The exclamation, to me so surprising for why was Miss West an arrant feminist for making a possibly true if uncomplimentary statement about the other sex? - was not merely the cry of wounded vanity; it was a protest against some infringement of his power to believe in himself. Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size. Without that power probably the earth would still be swamp and jungle. The glories of all our wars would be unknown. We should still be scratching the outlines of deer on the remains of mutton bones and bartering flints for sheep skins or whatever simple ornament took our unsophisticated taste. Supermen and Fingers of Destiny would never have existed. The Tsar and the Kaiser would never have worn crowns or lost them. Whatever may be their use in civilized societies, mirrors are essential to all violent and heroic action. That is why Napoleon and Mussolini both insist so emphatically upon the inferiority of women, for if they were not inferior, they would cease to enlarge. That serves to explain in part the necessity that women so often are to men. And it serves to explain how restless they are under her criticism; how impossible it is for her to say to them this book is bad, this picture is feeble, or whatever it may be, without giving far more pain and musing far more anger than a man would do who gave the same criticism. For if she begins to tell the truth, the figure in the looking-glass shrinks; his fitness for life is diminished. How is he to go on giving judgement, civilizing natives, making laws, writing books, dressing up and speechifying at banquets, unless he can see himself at breakfast and at dinner at least twice the size he really is? So I reflected, crumbling my bread and stirring my coffee and now and again looking at the people in the street. The looking-glass vision is of supreme importance because it charges the vitality; it stimulates the nervous system. Take it away and man may die, like the drug fiend deprived of his cocaine. Under the spell of that illusion, I thought, looking out of the window, half the people on the pavement are striding to work. They put on their hats and coats in the morning under its agreeable rays. They start the day confident, braced, believing themselves desired at Miss Smith's tea party; they say to themselves as they go into the room, I am the superior of half the people here, and it is thus that they speak with that self-confidence, that self-assurance, which have had such profound consequences in public life and lead to such curious notes in the margin of the private mind.

As a self-confessed Pre-Raphaelite - a term that by the 1880s was interchangeable with ‘Aesthete’ - Constance was carrying a torch whose flame had ben lit in the 1850s by a group of women associated with the founding Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood painters. Women such as Elizabeth Siddal and Jane Morris, the wives respectively of the painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti and the poet, designer and socialist William Morris, had modelled for the Pre-Raphaelite artists, wearing loose, flowing gowns. But it was not just their depiction on canvas that sparked a new fashion among an intellectual elite. Off canvas these women also establised new liberties for women that some twenty years later were still only just being taken up by a wider female population. They pioneered new kinds of dresses, with sleeves either sewn on at the shoulder, rather than below it, or puffed and loose. While the rest of the female Victorian populace had to go about with their arms pinned to their bodies in tight, unmoving sheaths, the Pre-Raphaelite women could move their arms freely, to paint or pose or simply be comfortable. The Pre-Raphaelite girls also did away with the huge, bell-shaped crinoline skirts, held out by hoops and cages strapped on to the female undercarriage. They dispensed with tight corsets that pinched waists into hourglasses, as well as the bonnets and intricate hairstyles that added layer upon layer to a lady’s daily toilette. Their ‘Aesthetic’ dress, as it became known, was more than just a fashion; it was a statement. In seeking comfort for women it also spoke of a desire for liberation that went beyond physical ease. It was also a statement about female creative expression, which in itself was aligned to broader feminist issues. The original Pre-Raphaelite sisterhood lived unconventionally with artists, worked at their own artistic projects and became famous in the process. Those women who were Aesthetic dress in their wake tended to believe that women should have the right to a career and ultimately be enfranchised with the vote. […] And so Constance, with ‘her ugly dresses’, her schooling and her college friends, was already in some small degree a young woman going her own way. Moving away from the middle-class conventions of the past, where women were schooled by governesses at home, would dress in a particular manner and be chaperoned, Constance was already modern.

Spending Smart is the only way to get out of debt and build wealth. That's a bold, but true, statement. It's like calories are the key to a weight-loss diet. It doesn't matter what the new diet fad is. A diet to lose weight only works if you burn more calories than you consume. Everything else is just window dressing and hype.

Women say that men objectify them and men try to claim that the objectification of women does not exist... it does exist. Yes, some males do objectify females, but most do not. So, my fellow females... here's a secret. Female objectification will not exist if females do not objectify themselves. You have that choice. If you choose to dress like a tramp, it will not ensure you popularity... it will make you look like a tramp. If males force you to objectify yourself, it's a sex crime. Males, we know that females are also guilty of objectifying you. Do not objectify yourself. If they force you to objectify yourself, it is a sex crime. If nothing else, this statement will hopefully cut down on the number of racy Super Bowl ads.

Lenin’s and Stalin’s form of communism is gone, yet its trappings have been expropriated by mega-corporations. We have companies featuring central planning by troikas, mission statements crafted by apparatchiks, five-year plans, no right to choose leaders in companies, no democracy in the workplace, a clear distinction between intelligentsia and peasants (top CEOs make 152 times the median salary and enjoy company dachas, jets, and limos), and state monitoring (time clocks, dress codes, drug screening, “employee assistance” plans, e-mail monitoring, no smoking, and other personal conduct rules, as well as family-life audits).

The student with whom Hal shared a bedroom, Englishman John Abel Smith, bore educational credentials that Hal could only dimly conceive. John was the namesake of a renowned merchant banker and British Member of Parliament. He had attended Eton, one of the world’s most famous preparatory schools, before entering Cambridge, where he had “read” under the personal tutelage of English scholars. Hal began to understand the difference between his public-school education and the background of his roommates when he surveyed them relative to a reading list he came across. It was titled, “One Hundred Books Every Educated Person Ought to Have Read.” George Montgomery and Powell Cabot had read approximately seventy and eighty, respectively. John Abel Smith had read all but four. Hal had read (though not necessarily finished) six. Hal also felt his social inferiority. He had long known that his parents weren’t fashionable. His mother never had her hair done in a beauty parlor. His father owned only one pair of dress shoes at a time and frequently took long trips abroad with nothing but his briefcase and a single change of underwear, washing his clothes—including a “wash-and-wear” suit—in hotel sinks at night. That was part of the reason why Hal took an expensive tailored suit—a broad-shouldered pinstripe—and a new fedora hat to Boston. He knew that he needed to rise to a new level, fashion-wise. But he realized that his fashion statement had failed when Powell Cabot asked, late in October, to borrow his suit and hat. Hal’s swell of pride turned to chagrin when Powell explained his purpose—he had been invited to a Halloween costume party, and he wanted to go as a gangster.

Inappropriate level of politeness – A verbal deceptive behavior in which a person interjects an overly polite or unexpectedly kind or complimentary comment directed at the questioner when responding to a question. Example: Uncharacteristic use of “sir” or “ma’am” when responding to a particular question. Inappropriate question – A verbal deceptive behavior in which a person responds with a question that doesn’t directly relate to the question that’s asked. Inconsistent statement – A verbal deceptive behavior in which a person makes a statement that is inconsistent with what he said previously, without explaining why the story has changed. Interrogation – See Elicitation. Interview – A means of establishing a dialogue with a person to collect information that he has no reason to want to withhold. Invoking religion – A verbal deceptive behavior in which a person makes a reference to God or religion as a means of “dressing up the lie” before presenting it. Example: “I swear on a stack of Bibles, I wouldn’t do anything like that.” Leading question – A question that contains the answer that the questioner is looking for. Legitimacy statement – A statement within a monologue that is designed to explain the purpose or reasoning behind what the interrogator is conveying.

Monday afternoon, August 17, 1998, while still at the White House, President Bill Clinton became the first president to appear before a grand jury and testify regarding his own actions. It was videotaped just the way ours was, but he also appeared “live” (though remotely) to that grand jury via closed-circuit TV. Now he was cornered and finally had to pay the piper—or at least tell some portion of the truth. We all held our breath. That night he spoke via television to the entire nation, furiously trying to stay ahead of the shit storm he himself had created when, on Saturday, January 27, he made a demonstratively false sworn statement—outright perjury—that the allegations about him and Monica Lewinsky were false. He said emphatically and fervently, “I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Ms. Lewinsky.” It was his word against ours with a titillated world watching. Only because of Linda Tripp, Monica Lewinsky’s infamous blue dress, and Ken Starr could the truth set us all free.

Michelangelo was the world's first tortured artist. "My delight is in melancholy," he said, a statement that would later become the unofficial rallying cry for countless generations of sullen artists dressed entirely in black.

Stablehands ran to the bridles and led the horses to a picket as Nessaren and I walked into the tent. Inside was a kind of controlled pandemonium. Scribes and runners were everywhere that low tables and cushions weren’t. Atop the tables lay maps and piles of papers, plus a number of bags of coinage. In a corner was stacked a small but deadly arsenal of very fine swords. Seated in the midst of the chaos was Shevraeth, dressed in the green and gold of Remalna, with a commander’s plumed and coroneted helm on the table beside him. He appeared to be listening to five people, all of whom were talking at once. One by one they received from him quick orders, and they vanished in different directions. Then he saw us, and his face relaxed slightly. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized he was tense. Meanwhile the rest of his people had taken note of our arrival, and all were silent as he rose and came around the table to stand before us. “Twenty wagons, Lady Meliara?” he said, one brow lifting. I shrugged, fighting against acute embarrassment. “We’ve a wager going.” His neatly gloved hand indicated the others in the tent. “How many, do you think, would have been too many for you to take on single-handed?” “My thinking was this,” I said, trying to sound casual, though by then my face felt as red as a glowing Fire Stick. “Two of them could trounce me as easy as twenty wagons’ worth. The idea was to talk them out of trying. Luckily Nessaren and the rest of the wing arrived when they did, or I suspect I soon would have been part of the road.” Shevraeth’s mouth was perfectly controlled, but his eyes gleamed with repressed laughter as he said, “That won’t do, my lady. I am very much afraid if you’re going to continue to attempt heroic measures you will have to make suitably heroic statements afterward--” “If there is an afterward,” I muttered, and someone in the avidly watching group choked on a laugh. “--such as are written in the finest of our histories.” “Huh,” I said. “I guess I’ll just have to memorize a few proper heroic bombasts, rhymed in three places, for next time. And I’ll also remember to take a scribe to get it all down right.” He laughed--they all did. They laughed much harder than the weak joke warranted, and I realized that events had not been so easy here. I unclasped his cloak and handed it over. “I’m sorry about the hem,” I said, feeling suddenly shy. “Got a bit muddy.” He slung the cloak over one arm and gestured to a waiting cushion. “Something hot to drink?” A young cadet came forward with a tray and steaming coffee. I busied myself choosing a cup, sitting down, and striving to reestablish within myself a semblance of normalcy. While I sipped at my coffee, one by one the staff finished their chores and vanished through the tent flaps, until at last Shevraeth and I were alone.

March 8: Love Happy is released. Marilyn’s total screen time is thirty-eight seconds—long enough for Groucho to respond to her slinking into his detective agency office with the question, “Is there anything I can do for you?” He promptly responds, “What a ridiculous statement.” Marilyn tells him that men keep following her and sways out of camera range as Groucho comments, “Really? I can’t understand why.” Marilyn later recalled, “There were three girls there and Groucho had us each walk away from him. . . . I was the only one he asked to do it twice. Then he whispered in my ear, ‘You have the prettiest ass in the business.’ I’m sure he meant it in the nicest way.” Groucho later said Marilyn was “Mae West, Theda Bara and Bo Peep rolled into one.” Marilyn received $500 for her appearance and another three hundred to pose for promotional photographs. Marilyn is sent on a promotional tour for a fee of one hundred dollars a week. She meets dress manufacturer Henry Rosenfeld in New York City, and they become lifelong friends. During this period she also does her famous Jones Beach photo sessions with Andre de Dienes. The tour takes her to Detroit, Cleveland, Chicago, Milwaukee, and Rockford, Illinois. Marilyn attends a party at the Chicago nightclub Ricketts with Roddy McDowell. Marilyn appears in print advertisement for Kyron diet pills, with accompanying text: “If you want slim youthful lines like Miss Monroe and other stars, start the KYRON Way to slenderness—today!

I knew the instant I saw you that you were not her.” “But you didn’t say anything!” He smirks. “To be honest, I was intrigued. I intended to question you in private, so as not to alarm my mother or Emily. But then I saw the change in my cousin. She had been quite despondent over her impending marriage--until your arrival. I admit I had no intention of interfering in her engagement, yet I could hardly take away what happiness you brought. Perhaps it was a way of alleviating my guilt for not helping her. And aside from that, you seemed to be doing no harm.” He grins at that last statement, as it’s obvious I was up to far more mischief than he realized. “You mean all this time I’ve been freaking out over you hating me and you knew?” He smiles sheepishly. It’s the closest thing to embarrassment I’ve ever seen on his face. “Yes.” I groan. “I guess I deserve that.” I turn back to the sky, and for the first time, an odd sense of peace washes over me. I want to stay here. I know now, without a shadow of a doubt, I want to stay here. Those mixed feelings have been replaced by something else: fear. Fear that it’s not really my choice to make. His thumb picks up its soft circling on my hand. “What will you do now?” “I don’t…I don’t know. I mean, I’m so lost I can’t find my way home. And maybe that sounds weird, but it’s true.” “You may stay here. As long as you need to.” I squeeze his hand. “Thank you. I’m not sure if I should, though. I belong somewhere else, and there may come a day when I need to go. When I…have to go. And I don’t want you to…I don’t want you to put anything on hold because of me.” I can’t believe I just said that. I can’t believe I implied he’d be so stuck on me that he wouldn’t pay attention to the other girls and his supposed duty to find a wife. A Duchess for Harksbury. “I would not wish you to leave if it is not your desire.” I nod and swallow the boulder-sized lump forming in my throat. I don’t know if he feels quite as strongly for me as I do for him, but he does care about me. And it feels good. “Thank you.” We turn back to the sky again, and I edge closer to him. I feel strange, dressed in my jeans and T-shirt, while he is still dressed as he always is. It makes it so painfully obvious that we’re from different worlds. Worlds that will never see one another. Worlds much too far apart. I turn toward him, so my cheek is resting on the cool grass. When he looks back at me, his eyes nearly blend with the blades until all I see is a sea of intense green. And then I do it. I edge closer to him, close my eyes, and kiss him. His lips are as soft and full as before, but I enjoy it this time, because my mind isn’t reeling like it was. I lose myself to the moment as he presses back against me. It is perfect. It is everything I want it to be and more. And then we both retreat, and I open my eyes. He moves his arm so that it wraps around my shoulders, and I have somewhere to rest my head, and then I snuggle up against him and close my eyes again, as the heavy draw of sleep lulls me under.

It came to me suddenly that evil was, perhaps, necessarily always more impressive than good. It had to make a show! It had to startle and challenge! It was instability attacking stability. And in the end, I thought, stability will always win. Stability can survive the triteness of Good Fairy Diamond; the flat voice, the rhymed couplet, even the irrelevant vocal statement of "There's a winding road runs down the hill, To the olde world town I love." All very poor weapons it would seem, and yet those weapons would inevitably prevail. The pantomime would end in the way it always ended. The staircase, and the descending cast in order of seniority, with Good Fairy Diamond, practising the Christian virtue of humility and not seeking to be first (or in this case, last) but arriving about halfway through the procession, side by side with her late opponent, now seen to be no longer the snarling Demon King breathing fire and brimstone, but just a man dressed up in red tights.

Llandrindon joined in the discussion. "I believe what Mardling is asking," he said, "is how one will be able to tell the difference between a shopgirl and a well-to-do woman if they are both clean and similarly dressed. And if a gentleman is not able to tell what they are by their appearance, how is he to know how to treat them?" Stunned by the snobbery of the question, Matthew considered his reply carefully. "I've always thought all women should be treated with respect no matter what their station." "Well said," Westcliff said gruffly, as Llandrindon opened his mouth to argue. No one wished to contradict the earl, but Mardling pressed, "Westcliff, do you see nothing harmful in encouraging the poor to rise above their stations? In allowing them to pretend there is no difference between them and ourselves?" "The only harm I see," Westcliff said quietly, "is in discouraging people who want to better themselves, out of fear that we will lose our perceived superiority." The statement caused Matthew to like the earl even more than he had previously.

Lottie left the room, her gown swishing and rustling as she moved. As she descended the grand staircase, she saw Nick waiting in the entrance hall, his body as tense as that of a panther about to strike. His broad-shouldered form was dressed to perfection in the formal scheme of a dark coat, silver waistcoat, and a charcoal silk necktie. With his dark brown hair neatly brushed and his face gleaming from a close shave, he was both virile and elegant. His head turned toward her, and suddenly his narrow-eyed impatience was replaced by an arrested expression. Lottie felt a rush of elation at the look in his eyes. She deliberately took her time about reaching him. “Do I look like a viscountess?” she asked. His lips quirked wryly. “No viscountess I’ve ever seen looks like you, Lottie.” She smiled. “Is that a compliment?” “Oh, yes. In fact…” Nick took her gloved hand and assisted her down the last step. He held her gaze compulsively, his fingers tightening around hers, and he answered her light question with a gravity that stunned her. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world,” he said huskily. “The world?” she repeated with a laugh. “When I say you’re beautiful,” he murmured, “I refuse to qualify the statement in any way. Except to add that the only way you could be more so is if you were naked.” She laughed at his audacity. “I am afraid that you will have to reconcile yourself to the fact that I’m going to remain fully clothed tonight.” “Until after the ball,” he countered. -Lottie & Nick

Do you seriously think I’m coming to your dance?” I went on. “Why, I haven’t got a dress, or a face fit to show in a ball-room; and I’ve not been to a ball for years.” They fought this statement inch by inch: they would lend me a dress; my face didn’t matter; and after all, I was only twenty-eight, not really old. I ended the discussion by promising to go, for an idea had flashed into my mind that made me dizzy.

Success at The Edge demands a different outlook, and this sense of identity can be fostered in a number of ways. Values statements, for example, can be used effectively to create a common culture and identity. The effects are not automatic, and there are instances in which corporate values statements are little more than superficial window dressing. They make attractive wall hangings, but little else.

To me, coming from applied mathematics, a theorem was a statement about an everlasting mathematical truth—not the dressing up of a trivial observation in a lot of formalism.

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six, so I read my morning portion the night before. I read through the appointed portion in a prayer spirit again and again, then went over it clause by clause on my knees, turning its statements into prayer and thanksgiving. Then I wrote out the verse or phrase that spoke to me, read it over next morning as I dressed, committed the day briefly to God, and put the text in my waistcoat pocket. Before I found this method I used to try to work myself into a praying mood, but I lacked resourcefulness, and praying became "prayers" again, and

The discussion between Leon and Rayna seemed to have finally concluded. The woman turned around. “Follow me. We’ll find a place for you all,” she said as she walked back into the village. Derek watched the pretty blonde woman as she fell in beside Leon and began chatting. “What’s with the oddly dressed person in your group?” she whispered to Leon, but Derek was close enough that with his stats, he could hear the conversation if he focused. “Oddly dressed person?” Leon looked back, and his eyes fell on Derek. A slightly surprised look appeared on his face as he turned back around. “I think you’re talking about Derek. That’s another thing we have to discuss, but I would prefer to do so in private,” he said. “Very well, though I don’t see why we need to discuss it in private. He looks odd, and he was staring out into space earlier when we were talking about the future of your people. Is he slow? Mentally challenged?” Rayna let her suspicions be known. Derek’s eyelid twitched at that statement. Mentally challenged? I’ll show her mentally challenged. Leon had turned just in time to see Derek’s facial expression change. “Slow… No! No, he’s not slow at all.” Leon moved even closer to Rayna and whispered something as lightly as he could. This time, Derek could not make out what they said, but he could guess by the reaction Rayna made. Her head rapidly turned back to look at Derek. This time, a look of shock appeared on her face. He could not stop himself from smirking ever so slightly. Hmm… Serves you right for calling me slow.

Tunics are one of the most popular and versatile garments in fashion. They can be worn in a variety of ways to create different looks. Here are some tips on how to wear a tunic: Pair tunic tops for women with leggings or skinny jeans for a comfortable and stylish look. Wear a belt around your waist to define your figure and create an hourglass shape. Layer long tunics for women over a collared shirt or turtleneck for a chic and polished look. Add interest to your outfit with accessories such as statement necklaces, scarves, or belts. For a more casual look, pair a tunic with shorts or Capri pants. To dress up your outfit, wear heels or wedges with your tunic. How to Style a Tunic ? Tunics are a versatile and comfortable item of clothing that can be worn in a variety of ways. They are perfect for both casual and formal occasions, and can be styled to suit any taste. Here are some tips on how to style a tunic: -Pair your designer tunics online with leggings or skinny jeans for a casual look. -Wear it over a dress or skirt for a more formal outfit. -Layer it under a jacket or cardigan for extra warmth. Tunics For Women Fashion: A Guide to Using This All-Time Favorite Tunic Fashion is an all-time favorite for many women. Wearing one makes you feel light and confident all at once – the perfect combination! Tunics come in a variety of patterns, lengths, and sleeves, so there’s something for every woman no matter what your personal style might be. Tunic Lengths Tunic fashion is all about comfort and style. This all-time favorite can be dressed up or down, making it a versatile piece in your wardrobe. The key to finding the right tunic length is to know your body type and what looks best on you. Petite women should look for tunics that hit at the hip or above. This will prevent the tunic from overwhelming your small frame. If you’re tall, you can get away with long tunics for women length. Just make sure it doesn’t drag on the ground – no one wants to deal with that! If you’re pear-shaped, look for tunics that cinch at the waist to flatter your figure. A-line tunics are also a good option for this body type. And if you have an hourglass figure, show off your curves with a fitted tunic top. No matter what your body type, there’s a tunic length out there that will look great on you! What to Wear with a Tunic ? Assuming you want a guide on how to wear a tunic: Tunics for women are one of the most versatile, easy-to-wear items in any woman’s wardrobe. Whether you’re looking for something to wear to the office or on a casual weekend, a tunic can be dressed up or down to suit any occasion. But with so many different styles and silhouettes out there, it can be hard to know what to pair with your tunic. Here are a few tips on what to wear with a tunic dress for women, no matter what the occasion: For work: To give your tunic a more polished look for work, try pairing it with tailored trousers or a pencil skirt. Add a blazer for extra warmth and style points. And don’t forget the accessories! A great pair of earrings or a statement necklace can really elevate your look. For weekends: On weekends, you can afford to dress your girls tunic tops down a bit. Try pairing it with jeans or leggings for a comfortable, casual look. Slip on some flats or sneakers and you’re good to go! For evenings out: To dress up your tunic for an evening out, try pairing it with slim-fit pants or a skirt in a rich fabric like velvet or satin. Add heels and some sparkling jewelry to really make your outfit shine. How to Wear a Tunic ? -Accessorize with jewelry, scarves, or belts to personalize your look. What Types of Tunics are Available? Ladies tunic dresses come in a wide range of styles, from fitted to loose and flowing. They can be made from a variety of fabrics, including cotton, linen, Silk, and wool. You can find tunics in solid colors, patterns, and prints.

Tunics For Women Fashion: A Guide to Using This All-Time Favorite Tunic Fashion is an all-time favorite for many women. Wearing one makes you feel light and confident all at once – the perfect combination! Tunics come in a variety of patterns, lengths, and sleeves, so there’s something for every woman no matter what your personal style might be. Tunic Lengths Tunic fashion is all about comfort and style. This all-time favorite can be dressed up or down, making it a versatile piece in your wardrobe. The key to finding the right tunic length is to know your body type and what looks best on you. Petite women should look for tunics that hit at the hip or above. This will prevent the tunic from overwhelming your small frame. If you’re tall, you can get away with long tunics for women length. Just make sure it doesn’t drag on the ground – no one wants to deal with that! If you’re pear-shaped, look for tunics that cinch at the waist to flatter your figure. A-line tunics are also a good option for this body type. And if you have an hourglass figure, show off your curves with a fitted tunic top. No matter what your body type, there’s a tunic length out there that will look great on you! What to Wear with a Tunic ? Assuming you want a guide on how to wear a tunic: Tunics for women are one of the most versatile, easy-to-wear items in any woman’s wardrobe. Whether you’re looking for something to wear to the office or on a casual weekend, a tunic can be dressed up or down to suit any occasion. But with so many different styles and silhouettes out there, it can be hard to know what to pair with your tunic. Here are a few tips on what to wear with a tunic dress for women, no matter what the occasion: For work: To give your tunic a more polished look for work, try pairing it with tailored trousers or a pencil skirt. Add a blazer for extra warmth and style points. And don’t forget the accessories! A great pair of earrings or a statement necklace can really elevate your look. For weekends: On weekends, you can afford to dress your girls tunic tops down a bit. Try pairing it with jeans or leggings for a comfortable, casual look. Slip on some flats or sneakers and you’re good to go! For evenings out: To dress up your tunic for an evening out, try pairing it with slim-fit pants or a skirt in a rich fabric like velvet or satin. Add heels and some sparkling jewelry to really make your outfit shine. How to Wear a Tunic ? -Accessorize with jewelry, scarves, or belts to personalize your look.

As a former CIA operative, I've heard a lot of statements that have chilled me as though I had a foot-long icicle down my throat while sitting naked and wet on an ice floe. (By the way—don't go to Greenland. Ever.) Things like, Open up! It's the police, and we have a flamethrower! and Tell me the code or I'll have to use this pair of pliers on your eyelids. All terrifying under normal circumstances, but throw in the Iranian secret police or a Venezuelan death squad dressed as circus clowns, and they have a smidge more gravitas. But nothing…nothing compares to what I was just told. "What do you mean we have to sell cookies?" I asked Kelly with a slight tremble in my voice. "To people? On purpose?

You're still lying on me.' 'I know.' I took a breath. 'It's quite rude of you to continue doing so when I've made it clear that I would like for you to move.' 'It's quite rude of you to barge into my room dressed as-' 'Your lover?' He raised a brow. 'I wouldn't call her that.' 'What would you call her?' Hawke appeared to mull that over while still sprawled halfway across me. 'A... good friend.' Part of me was relieved that he hadn't referred to her as something derogatory like I'd overhead other men do before when speaking of women they'd been intimate with, but a good friend? 'I didn't know friends behaved this way.' 'I'm willing to wager you don't know much about these sort of things.' The truth in his statement was hard to ignore. 'And you wager all of this on just one kiss?' 'Just one kiss? Princess, you can learn a wealth of things from just one kiss.

I've got so used to my life being challenging and fraught with danger that I don't question it any more. Whether I’m knocking on the door of a hardcore sex shop, walking through suburban streets being verbally abused and spat on, or being threatened on the tube, I don't give in. I don’t dress normally to have an easy life. The pilgrimage down the King’s Road to get to the Shop (Sex: everyone calls it ‘the Shop’), the place I want to hang out and buy stuff, is one of the scariest things I do — running the gauntlet of teds who want to kill people like me — but nothing will stop me looking the way I want. It’s a commitment.

Four months after making his statement, Andrade vanished. The earth swallowed him up. His last appearance in public was at the International Book Fair held in Mexico City in February 1999. The lawyer showed up dressed in black, accompanied by a mariachi dressed in white, who went through the corridors singing “The Man from Sinaloa,” Carrillo Fuentes’s favourite song.

Blue high heels, a timeless and enchanting accessory, have long held a special place in fashion. These stunning footwear pieces effortlessly blend sophistication with a dash of whimsy, making them a coveted addition to any fashion-conscious individual's wardrobe. In all its shades, the color blue has always been associated with a sense of calm, serenity, and depth. When translated into high heels, this color takes on a whole new dimension, turning a pair of shoes into a fashion statement that exudes confidence and charm. One of the most remarkable aspects of blue high heels is their versatility. Whether you opt for a classic navy, a vibrant royal blue, or an ethereal pastel shade, there's a blue heel to suit every occasion. Navy blue heels, for example, are an excellent choice for corporate settings, exuding professionalism and power. On the other hand, a pair of electric blue stilettos can add a playful pop of color to your evening ensemble, making you the center of attention at any event. Blue high heels also beautifully complement a wide range of outfits. They can elevate a simple jeans-and-blouse combo, add a touch of elegance to a cocktail dress, or provide a striking contrast to an all-black ensemble. Their ability to effortlessly blend into various styles and settings is a testament to their timeless appeal. In addition to their aesthetic charm, blue high heels offer the wearer a sense of empowerment. The elevation they provide not only increases height but also boosts confidence. Walking in heels requires poise and balance, qualities that further enhance one's self-assurance. Blue high heels are a must-have for anyone looking to infuse their wardrobe with elegance and style. These captivating footwear pieces offer versatility, empowerment, and a touch of sophistication, making them an indispensable accessory for fashion enthusiasts. Whether stepping into the boardroom, hitting the town, or simply looking to turn heads, blue high heels will always rise to the occasion, leaving a lasting impression wherever you go.

In 1429, a seventeen-year-old girl who would soon come to be renowned as Jehanne la Pucelle (“Jeanne, the maiden”) left a small town in northeast France to offer her services as a military strategist to Charles VII, the Dauphin—or heir to the throne—whose forces were losing a protracted war against English partisans threatening to displace him. At first, no one took her seriously, but Jehanne’s determination overcame initial resistance: her skill and insight helped the French develop new battle plans and her courage inspired the demoralized troops. Under Jehanne’s leadership, the French forces successfully thwarted a siege on the city of Orleans. Later she led a campaign to retake the city and cathedral of Reims, where the kings of France had been crowned ever since the Frankish tribes were united under one ruler, allowing the Dauphin to be crowned king in the ancient tradition. Jehanne’s remarkable successes seemed divinely ordained, which necessarily implied Charles’s divine right to rule France. In 1430 Jehanne was captured in battle and imprisoned. An ecclesiastical tribunal stacked with English partisans tried her for heresy. But Jehanne’s faith was beyond reproach. She showed an astonishing familiarity with the intricacies of scholastic theology, evading every effort to lure her into making a heretical statement. Unable to discredit her faith through her verbal testimony, the tribunal seized on the implicit statements made by Jehanne’s attire. In battle, she wore armor, which required linen leggings and a form-fitting tunic fastened together with straps—both traditionally masculine attire—and, like the men she fought alongside, she adopted this martial attire when off the battlefield as well. Citing the biblical proscription in Deuteronomy 22:5 (KJV) which warns, “A woman shall not wear anything that pertains to a man, nor shall a man put on a women’s garment, for all who do are an abomination to the Lord your God,” the tribunal charged Jehanne with heresy. They burned her at the stake in 1431.

London is a melting pot of diverse cultures, which makes it fertile soil for an eclectic art, music, and culture scene. London keeps a firm grip on its history and origins, which is evident in the way the locals dress.

Coretti didn’t know how to dress. Clothing was a language and Coretti a kind of sartorial stutterer, unable to make the kind of basic coherent fashion statement that would put strangers at their ease. His ex-wife told him he dressed like a Martian; that he didn’t look as though he belonged anywhere in the city. He hadn’t liked her saying that, because it was true.

We are here to make your wardrobe fun, exciting, and refreshing. When you put on your clothes every morning, you’re making a statement about yourself! Are you here to have fun? Going on a picnic? Dressing up for date night? Whatever it is, we’re here to help liven up your wardrobe, put pep in your step, and to set you up for success. As a quality clothing company, our goal is for you to look your best, feel your best, and to help you keep things fresh!

while the statements are dressed up to look as if they were made for the benefit of the collective.

AMANDA: Do you realize that we're living in sin? ELYOT: Not according to the Catholics; Catholics don't recognize divorce. We're married as much as ever we were. AMANDA: Yes, dear, but we're not Catholics. ELYOT: Never mind, it's nice to think they'd sort of back us up. We were married in the eyes of heaven, and we still are. AMANDA: We may be alright in the eyes of Heaven, but we look like being in the hell of a mess socially. ELYOT: Who cares? AMANDA: Are we going to marry again, after Victor and Sibyl divorce us? ELYOT: I suppose so. What do you think? AMANDA: I feel rather scared of marriage really. ELYOT: It is a frowsy business. AMANDA: I believe it was just the fact of our being married, and clamped together publicly, that wrecked us before. ELYOT: That, and not knowing bow to manage each other. AMANDA: Do you think we know how to manage each other now? ELYOT: This week's been very successful. We've hardly used Solomon Isaacs at all. AMANDA: Solomon Isaacs is so long, let's shorten it to Sollocks. ELYOT: All right. AMANDA: Darling, you do look awfully sweet in your little dressing-gown. ELYOT: Yes, it's pretty ravishing, isn't it? AMANDA: Do you mind if I come round and kiss you? [...] AMANDA: We're tormenting one another. Sit down, sweet, I'm scared. ELYOT [Slowly]: Very well. [He sits down thoughtfully.] AMANDA: We should have said Sollocks ages ago. ELYOT: We're in love all right. [...] AMANDA: [Victor] had a positive mania for looking after me, and protecting me. ELYOT: That would have died down in time, dear. AMANDA: You mustn't be rude; there's no necessity to be rude. ELYOT: I wasn't in the least rude; I merely made a perfectly rational statement. AMANDA: Your voice was decidedly bitter. ELYOT: Victor bad glorious legs, hadn't he? And fascinating ears. AMANDA: Don't be silly. ELYOT: He probably looked radiant in the morning, all flushed and tumbled on the pillow. AMANDA: I never saw him on the pillow. ELYOT: I'm surprised to hear it. AMANDA [angrily]: Elyot! ELYOT: There's no need to be cross. AMANDA: What did you mean by that? ELYOT: I'm sick of listening to you yap, yap, yap, yap, yap, yapping about Victor. AMANDA: Now listen Elyot, once and for all --, ELYOT: Oh my dear, Sollocks! Sollocks! -- two minutes -- Sollocks. AMANDA: But -- ELYOT [firmly]: Sollocks! [They sit in dead silence, looking at each other. AMANDA makes a sign that she wants a cigarette. ELYOT gets up, hands her the box, and lights one for her and himself. AMANDA rises and walks over to the window, and stands there, looking out for a moment. Presently ELYOT joins her. She slips her arm through his, and they kiss lightly. They draw the curtains and then come down and sit side by side on the sofa. ELYOT looks at his watch. AMANDA raises her eyebrows at him and he nods, then they both sigh, audibly] That was a near thing. AMANDA: It was my fault. I'm terribly sorry, darling. ELYOT: I was very irritating, I know I was. I'm sure Victor was awfully nice, and you're perfectly right to be sweet about him. AMANDA: That's downright handsome of you. Sweetheart! [She kisses him.] ELYOT [leaning back with her on the sofa]: I think I love you more than ever before. Isn't it ridiculous? Put your feet up. [She puts her legs across his, and they snuggle back together in the corner of the sofa, his head resting on her shoulder.]

window dressing —measures taken by management to make the company appear as strong as possible in its financial statements.

In her book Asperger Syndrome and Adolescence: Practical Solutions for School Success, Brenda Smith Myles identifies six areas of difficulty for adolescents with Asperger’s: • Lack of understanding that nonverbal cues express meaning and attitudes. Teens miss out on many social opportunities because they don’t understand that a smile and glances from another person could mean they like him, or that teachers give a “look” that is a warning and should be interpreted as meaning to calm down and get to work. • Problems with using language to initiate or maintain a conversation. AS teens will often start a conversation with a comment that seems irrelevant, or may walk up to a group of teens and want to join in, but does not because he doesn’t know how or when to join in. • Tendency to interpret words or phrases concretely. AS teens often only understand the literal meanings of words and phrases and not expressions such as “You’re pulling my leg” and “Pull yourself together.” Or, as in the example from Luke Jackson’s book quoted earlier, they will do exactly as told and will not understand the implied statement, which leads teachers to think the teen is a smart aleck. • Difficulty understanding that other people’s perspective in conversation need to be considered. This can lead to one-sided monologues, because the AS student is talking about his area of interest and is not monitoring whether or not the listener is interested. • Failure to understand the unspoken rules of the hidden curriculum or a set of rules everyone knows, but that has not been specifically taught. Things that are important to teens, such as how to dress, what to say to whom, how to act, and how to know the difference between gentle teasing and bullying. • Lack of awareness that what you say to a person in one conversation may influence how that individual relates to you in the future. A teen may make a candid remark to another teen, not realizing it was hurtful, and may be puzzled by the person’s lack of response later that day.

Surfacing, in her human shape again, she drew in a lungful of air before perusing the shore. The empty shore. Frowning, she cast her gaze around as she treaded water, seeking a sign of Leo. But it seemed she’d lost him. Odd. Where did— A hand grabbed her ankle and yanked her down. Mid squeal she went under, clamping her lips tight lest she swallow water. The hand holding her loosened but only so it could take a new position on her waist. Despite the murky water, she saw Leo, his hair waving with the current they created, his lips quirked in a grin. With his arm anchored around her waist, he scissored his legs, propelling them to the surface. Their heads broke the skin of the water, and she took in a breath then used it to laugh. “Pookie, I can’t believe you swamp-monstered me.” “I can’t believe you screamed like a girl,” he teased. “Maybe I’m more delicate than I look,” she sassed. In the past, those kinds of statements had met with snickering or outright laughter. With Leo, however, his expression smoldered, and he was utterly serious when he said, “I think you look delectable. And you were positively dainty in that dress last night.” Damn jaw took that moment to unhinge, at least that was the excuse she was using for her prolonged gape. “Dainty? You do know the definition right?” “Isn’t it something along the lines of small and pretty?” “Yes.” “Then I used the correct term.” Yeah, that earned him a big ol’ smooch.

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. The conversation moved swiftly to the latest edition of “Have I Got News for You.” “Oh, Mummy, it was hilarious,” laughed William. “They had a photo of Mrs. Parker Bowles and a horse’s head and asked what the difference was. The answer was that there isn’t any!” Diana absolutely exploded with laughter. We talked about which was the hottest photo to get. “Charles and Camilla is still the really big one,” I said, “followed by you and a new man, and now, of course, William with his first girlfriend.” He groaned. So did Diana. Our “big ones” are the most intimate parts of their personal lives. It was a weird moment. I am the enemy, really, but we were getting on well and sort of developing a better understanding of each other as we went along. Lunch was turning out to be basically a series of front-page exclusive stories--none of which I was allowed to publish, although I did joke that “I would save it for my book”--a statement that caused Diana to fix me with a stare, and demand to know if I was carrying a tape recorder. “No,” I replied, truthfully. “Are you?” We both laughed, neither quite knowing what the answer really was. The lunch was one of the most exhilarating, fascinating, and exasperating two hours of my life. I was allowed to ask Diana literally anything I liked, which surprised me, given William’s presence. But he was clearly in the loop on most of her bizarre world and, in particular, the various men who came into it from time to time. The News of the World had, during my editorship, broken the Will Carling, Oliver Hoare, and James Hewitt scoops, so I had a special interest in those. So, unsurprisingly, did Diana. She was still raging about Julia Carling: “She’s milking it for all she’s worth, that woman. Honestly. I haven’t seen Will since June ’95. He’s not the man in black you lot keep going on about. I’m not saying who that is, and you will never guess, but it’s not Will.” William interjected: “I keep a photo of Julia Carling on my dartboard at Eton.” That was torture. That was three fantastic scoops in thirty seconds. Diana urged me to tell William the story of what we did to Hewitt in the Mirror after he spilled the beans in the ghastly Anna Pasternak book. I dutifully recounted how we hired a white horse, dressed a Mirror reporter in full armor, and charged Hewitt’s home to confront him on allegations of treason with regard to his sleeping with the wife of a future king--an offense still punishable by death. Diana exploded again. “It was hysterical. I have never laughed so much.” She clearly had no time for Hewitt, despite her “I adored him” TV confessional.

Desirée wore black for her April Fool’s party. On any other woman of her age it would have been a disastrous dress but, by virtue of a sort of inner effrontery, she got away with it. Her neck, her bosom and that dismal little region, known, prettily, as the armpit, were all so many statements of betrayal, but she triumphed over them and not so much took them in her own stride as obliged other people to take them in theirs.

Fern, I’m glad I ran into you,” Carmel says, even though she was not running and nor had we made physical contact. She is wearing a bold yellow dress that suits neither her skin tone nor her personality. “I notice you haven’t put your name down for the staff bowling day.” She pauses expectantly, as if waiting for an answer, even though no matter how many times I replay her comment, I can’t find the question. Once, years ago, Rose told me that conversations were simply a series of questions. One person asked a question, the other person answered, and it went back and forth like this until the questions ran out. This explanation has assisted me through countless episodes of small talk. But lately, it feels like more and more people are opting for statement-to-statement types of conversation. Which generally leaves me at a loss. I am still searching for an appropriate response when Carmel continues.